The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

of glass glittering against the skirting board at the foot of the stairs. As she bent down to carefully retrieve it, she saw that there was a dull red stain on the stone-flagged floor nearby. How very peculiar, she thought, to have made a bloodstain on the floor the very first night we moved in – and acquired some bruises.

No one else was up. She noticed that the morning paper had already been pushed halfway through the letterbox. It gave her a sense of satisfaction to see it. The arrival of the newspaper, such a small thing, so easily arranged, nevertheless gave a sense of permanence. As if this had always been home and always would be. She pulled the paper towards her slowly, easing it out, not wanting the letterbox to snap too loudly, then carried it through to the kitchen, where she tossed it on to the table, put the smidgeon of glass into the bin and filled the kettle in readiness to make a cup of tea. It was very quiet, the silence only disturbed by the slap of her mules on the floor and the whisper of the kettle as the heat increased. She spread the paper flat on the table while she waited for the water to boil.

New lead in Leanne Finnegan case, the paper claimed. She picked it up again, in order to focus better on the text. ‘Cleveland Police have confirmed that following information from a new witness, who believes they may have seen the missing teenager on the day she disappeared, a man is helping them with their enquiries. A police spokesman last night refused to confirm whether this was the same man who had previously been held in connection with the case but later released without charge. Police have declined to comment on speculation that the Leanne Finnegan case is being linked with the disappearance last month of Leah Cattermole in Darlington.’

Wendy read swiftly all the way to the bottom of the piece, but it merely reiterated the few known facts about the disappearance of the two teenagers. The similarities were striking: both girls were in their late teens, similar in appearance, and even their names began with the same three letters, though that was perhaps just a weird coincidence. She had hardly been aware of the second case. They were all so busy at the moment, what with the move and everything. Besides which, Darlington, though it was only about fifteen miles away, never felt very local. It was somewhere they drove to once a year to have lunch in an Indian restaurant, followed by the matinee of the pantomime at the Civic Theatre. She wondered if the man being questioned was Peter. They might have been in daily contact with a killer, without being aware of it. As the kettle began to whistle, she pulled herself together, recalling that apart from some unsubstantiated gossip from a woman she’d only spoken to once in her life, there was no reason to believe that Peter had ever been involved in Leanne Finnegan’s disappearance at all. But if he had been … it meant that he might have abducted another girl while actually working here, in their home. Well, no, there was no reason to think anything of the kind. In fact, it was downright hysterical to even contemplate such a thing.

She was suddenly in need of fresh air. Having made her tea, she unlocked the door, walking round the side of the house and up the drive. It would be OK going into the front garden in her dressing gown. There was hardly anyone out and about to be passing the gate to see her. She stood on the front lawn, ignoring the way the dew was soaking into her slippers, admiring the transformation. The sun made the bricks glow a warm, welcoming orange. The front door opened and Bruce appeared. He had pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

‘I saw you out of the bedroom window. What on earth are you doing out here?’ He advanced across to the grass to join her.

‘I was just looking at the house – our house.’

‘Why? Is there something wrong?’

‘No, no. Just the opposite. Look at it, Bruce. The house is smiling.’

He laughed and draped an arm around her shoulders. ‘If you say so.’

‘I’d better come in and do some breakfast.’

‘There’s no rush. The kids are all still in bed.’

Wendy smiled up at him. ‘Just you and me and our happy house.’

Bruce laughed again. ‘Come on in, you barmpot,’ he said. ‘Your slippers are getting soaked.’

In summer, I used to see faces in the shadows made by sunlight on the leaves. In autumn, the dried-up leaves clung on too long, whispering their secrets as the wind tried to prize them away. In the winter, the bared branches showed through, ending in twigs that were thin and knobbly, like miniature finger bones. Eventually I stopped looking at the tree. I stopped going into that part of the garden altogether.

FIVE

August 1980

During the first few weeks in the new house, Tara made the most of her bedsit, inviting friends from sixth form college to lounge about on the beanbags in her room, or to sunbathe in the garden. Jamie and his friend Andrew Webster seemed to alternate between constructing enormous Lego spaceships on his bedroom floor and racing their bikes up and down the drive, while Katie and her friends gravitated onto the back lawn, which had sprouted a swing-ball set and some croquet hoops. Often Katie sat out in the garden alone, drawing the trees and flowers or reading a book. She had always been the quietest of the three children.

From the local news, Wendy learned that the man who had been detained in connection with the disappearance of Leanne Finnegan had been released without charge. The case slipped out of the news cycle and she did not think about it overmuch. There was no reason to believe that Peter had any connection